Deep Enough to Drown In
by 324b21niehaus
Summary: AU: Clarke Griffin has dedicated her life to her love of music. When her trust is shattered and her life is turned upside down, she runs away to a seaside town where she finds something she was never expecting: a friend in the form of an old soul cafe owner named Lexa, the one and probably only person in the world who knows nothing of the storm Clarke Griffin can be.
_Crrrrrrack!_

The thunder that rolled in over the city so dry that the grass was yellow and cracked on every lawn, and small fissures wove through the parched dirt like a web, was loud enough to mask the crashing of cd cases and photo frames being tossed into a box on the floor of apartment twenty three B in Clarke Griffin's Calabasas home. The smell of rain hung heavy in the air; in that moment, she could feel herself making the association before she could even try to stop herself. The smell of rain meant betrayal and anger, pain and fear, or it would for some time. It was ironic, truly, that the first rain Los Angeles had seen in months seemed to drift in at the precise moment in time when Clarke's life was beginning to unravel.

Being a household name, it wasn't something she had ever asked for. It wasn't something that she had actively sought out. No, Clarke had only ever been guilty of the love she had for music, for hearing it, for digesting it, for pulling it apart and putting it back together again, for writing it and making it mean something. Her beginnings had been humble; her parents had been the cornerstones to her imaginative mind; whenever it was she had wanted to try something, they let her, encouraged her even. They had only ever nurtured her in the best ways and as she continued to pack what she needed and only what she needed, she found herself cursing that very fact. Couldn't they have just let her exist in mediocrity?

It wasn't their fault. It wasn't anyone's fault but hers. _No,_ she corrected herself; this wasn't her fault. This was his fault. This was what he had wanted. He was a shark in a man's skin.

Another crack of thunder boomed throughout the city, echoing off of every surface it kicked, causing Clarke's hands to tremble, unable to keep hold of the knick knacks she'd kept from her childhood as she had attempted to get them into the box. Her father had made them, small wooden animals that he had hand carved. They had always been her anchor, what had kept her from letting the fame go to her head, or kept her from letting what the critics said eat her alive. Even now, looking down at them, she could feel the sting of disappointment somewhere near the backs of her eyes. If her father were around, what would he think? If he saw the tabloids, heard the gossip, how proud would he really be of her?

She had managed to surprise herself, in a sense. The tears had not come yet. Her life was in shambles and yet, she could not bring herself to grieve for what she was actively losing, even as she tried her hardest to run. With a few last minute additions of a family photo from when she was a girl and a necklace her mother had given her for her eighteenth birthday, Clarke shoved down the flaps of the box and pulled it into her arms, surveying the disheveled apartment. Maybe after that moment, she would be able to forget about it, to not think about what it would be like to go back, but she was still scared; what if she couldn't run fast enough? What if her scandal was on her heels? Would she ever be able to get away? If there was anywhere she could try, it would be Santa Barbara.

She dropped the box haphazardly in the trunk next to the guitar case she'd already packed away and pulled her hood up over her head as the rain began to dive for the ground at a furious pace, bouncing off of everything it hit. She pulled the door shut— hard— against the oncoming storm. It was awfully poetic, given her profession, and she felt like if it had been under any circumstances, it would have been impeccable fodder for a song. Instead, it made her want to run hard, drive faster. The rubber tires of the Mustang were slick on the road, but a bright shimmer of recklessness had nearly set her on fire. She was burning from the inside out, aching to get out of her skin, aching to separate herself from a life she could not longer identify as her own. How, truly, had things gotten so impossibly out of control? How had she managed to compromise her own sense of self? That was what was more bothersome to her; she was normally so firm in her ways, especially in her beliefs, and yet, there she was, trying to see through the sudden downpour that was wreaking havoc over the city, her knuckles white with how tightly her fingers were wrapped around the steering wheel.

A mild itch of irritation snuck up her spine as she glanced down to see that she had just enough gas to maybe reach the outskirts of town before she would have to stop. _Good_ she thoughts snidely to herself. She wasn't sure she could bear finding herself in a busy gas station with people who couldn't stop their prying eyes, who saw her and reverted to the images they had seen, whether it was the full video on the internet, or frozen stills splashed on tabloid cover pages.

Each time it crossed her mind, she felt ill. Todd Schultz had been a safe bet, the record label had told her. He was renowned for having managed several bands and artists over the course of his career, and he was good at what he did. Maybe that was because a lot of what he did involved being savvy and smooth, able to charm anyone and everyone with the right smile. She had bought into it, too. She had been weak, stupid, naive. She had let him convince her that he was one of the good ones, one of the people who was in the music industry for the music itself, and she could not have been more wrong.

Clarke, while confident in who she was, in every facet, was not exactly in a place where she felt comfortable sharing that with other people, especially given her profession. She had come such a long way from being the little fourteen year old with a guitar who wrote songs about growing up and summer nights. There had been times when, in the comforts of her own private notebooks, she wrote songs about the hushed and private relationships in her life. Sometimes, she took those songs and felt too much for them to go unused and so, changed the pronouns to fit a more widely consuming audience. She had been careless, though, and Todd had somehow managed to stumble upon that very notebook, the one that had never been touched by anyone but her, had never been read by anyone's eyes but her own.

She was getting so lost, so wrapped up in her thoughts that her foot had subconsciously started to sink, and she caught herself, slowing her speed as she reached the ramp for the highway, a sense of panic spiking in her chest at the cars backed up on the I-5. She just wanted out, wanted free, wanted away. The rain pounded the windshield, loud and crackling over the sound of the radio, which droned on senselessly in the background. She felt hyper aware as she glanced around, praying people were just as frustrated as she was about wanting to get wherever they were going. Her right middle finger twitched over the steering wheel and she found herself actively craving a cigarette, something she hadn't done in two and a half years since she'd quit.

 _"If you guys have been listening at all today, you know we've been taking calls to get your reactions to the Clarke Griffin sex tape scand—"_

"Aargh!" she nearly screamed as she slammed her palm over the volume button, clicking the radio off, a surge of sheer fury erupting in her chest. It felt like she was never going to get away from it, like it wouldn't matter. She wished they were moving faster, that the traffic wasn't so horrible. Her palms were sweating and she was struggling to keep from slipping back into that memory, but nothing she did was good enough.

 _"What's all this? This sounds just like Wasteland, but if it were written about a woman." She folded her arms over her chest defiantly as he spoke, her brow furrowing; she felt ambushed, like he was coming for her without reason._

 _"Because it_ ** _was_** _written about a woman. I changed it so it would make the album."_

 _"And Night Verses too?! How many of these are there?" he asked, flipping through the pages, but she'd had enough. "So what, you're gay now?"_

 _"I'm not gay," she spat back before she could think to stop herself. "I'm bisexual." He snorted a laugh at her and a scowl painted her features, offering a wicked side to her beauty. She reached forward and tried to take the notebook from him, but he was too fast as he jerked it back._

 _"Give it back to me, Todd. Now." Her voice was sharp and threatening, but she realistically understood the power imbalance between them, and not just in physical size. He had her career in her hands, quite literally, and the power to make her hate it._

 _"This stays between you and me," he declared, but the look in his eyes, it hollowed Clarke out from head to toe. She had started to nod, but his lips were parting and he was speaking, though she wasn't quite sure she heard him. She saw it, though, she saw every word on his lips and though she seemed so nonchalant about it, she knew exactly what he meant. "But you owe me one."_

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Of course it was going to happen, of course she was going to start crying before she could even make it out of the city limits. She had done what she thought she had to in order to save her career, and instead, she had quite literally fucked it all away. She should have stood with her morals, should have told him no. She should have let him release it; what was the worst that would happen? The label would drop her? Instead, she had been so intent on dictating the terms of her own coming out that she had been literally to do anything, and in retrospect, she hated herself for it. She was better than that, stronger than that, and yet, she had stooped so low. For what? Fame?

She should have known better— she _did_ know better— and she had hoped it would work. And maybe it would have, if he weren't a purely evil and miserable human being. More than losing her career, she had lost a sense of privacy, a sense of autonomy; he hadn't told her that he'd been filming. He hadn't told her he planned to ruin her career one way or another just to prove a point. How stupid she had been, how foolish she was to have considered that she was cut out for a world like the one she found herself in. Slowly, and painfully so, the cars began to move and she felt only a small wave of relief wash over her. She was closer to her destination, but it was still infinitely far away. The longer it took, the more in her head she got, and that was not a place she wanted to be. Her phone had been going off constantly and she had avoided every single person wanting to ask her questions or interrogate her. She was even dreading the call she knew would come that she had been dropped from her label, but there was only one number she was going to answer, and it had been saved into her contacts as 'ONLY ANSWER THIS NUMBER.' Funnily enough, it wasn't anyone special, but when it rang, Clarke felt a rush of nerves as she fumbled for her phone, throwing it on speaker.

"Ms Griffin? It's Ms Blake from the realtor's office."

"Yes, hi, of course. I've been hoping you'd get back to me."

"And with good news. The owner accepted the six months rent with no questions. I put it in the name you requested. Jake Griffin, correct?"

"Yes. Thank you again, Octavia. I appreciate your help so much."

"Not a problem, Ms Griffin. I'll send you a text message with my office address so that you can come by and get the keys. See you then."

"See you then. And thanks again."

As Clarke dropped her phone on the seat, she leaned back, running a hand through her hair with a soft sigh of relief. Cambria was a four hour drive, but there was a one hundred percent chance that no one would follow her. She had packed up the essentials and tossed her guitar in the trunk of her car, ready to run away. She'd always considered it as a kid, mostly when she felt misunderstood or frustrated. Now, though, she had every intention, and every ability to make it happen.

Every second that ticked by, every minute that seemed to stretch on forever was ultimately worth it when she had stepped in the front door of the apartment, her shoulders slumping forward with a sense of relaxation. The place was fully furnished and quite frankly, she was in love with it far before she walked through to the back, taking in the view of the back deck and the endless miles of ocean that stretched beyond in. "Home sweet home," she mused aloud to herself. Maybe running hadn't been the answer. Maybe she should have taken her mother's phone calls. Maybe she should have gone to Alaska instead. There was a vast array of maybes that she could have chosen from, but she didn't want to think about any of them. She was tucked away in this little corner of the world, _her_ little corner of the world.

She had been afraid that maybe nowhere would be far enough, but as she settled into the window seat with a glass of the whiskey she had picked up when she'd stopped for gas, she found herself thinking that she was safe there; driving through town had been refreshing in a way. The architecture was crafted beautifully and left her with even the smallest of smiles. It was different, refreshing. The things metaphors were made of.

In four days, she had only managed to leave home once in order to go to the store, grabbing everything she was sure she would need, and she had started to realize that she was driving herself insane. She was thinking herself miserable and it had to change. Finally, she had showered and put on "real people clothes," as she had mused to herself, not that it helped her feel like much more of a human being. She sank her hands into the pockets of her hoodie as she stepped out of the front door and locked it behind her, inhaling the cool evening air. A walk would definitely do her some good, though she gave an affectionate pat to the hood of her car as she walked by it.

Her eyes were filled with a sense of wonder and discovery as she walked along the main coastal road, taking in everything as it was bathed in the orange and pink hues of the setting sun. The emotion that filled her chest when she looked out toward the ocean and saw how the last lights of the day sparkled like diamonds on the backs of the waves was new, and she found a particular fondness for it. A few moments later, her eyes fell on a building with a metal frame that stretched out over the patio where there were several tables with umbrellas, and across the front steel plate of the arched beam read the words 'Grounds Central Station.' For a moment, Clarke found herself smirking at the humor of the pun. She crossed the street to the cafe, partially relieved by the fact that it was rather empty, aside from the barista who was leaning over the counter, possibly writing, or so it looked from a distance. The place was open, floor to ceiling windows that allowed visual access to the bright interior of the cafe with walls adorned with paintings, though Clarke couldn't quite tell of what at first. She pulled the door open and while her instinct was to shrink at the sound of the bell above her, she only flinched just barely, as if it was hardly noticeable. The woman at the counter lifted her head and for a moment, Clarke was stuck in time. It was foolish, but the inner artist in her took in the moment for everything it was.

Her long, tawny hair fell in waves over her shoulder as she had been scrutinizing whatever it was she was writing, judging by the slight wrinkle above her nose. As she stood, her gaze met Clarke's and for a moment, Clarke lost hold of rational thought at the sight of just how green and soft her eyes were, even before she started to smile. Her smile was warm, like cookies at three in the morning, or cinnamon buns before dinner, and it caused a strange feeling somewhere between her stomach and her chest. She had little smudges of flour on her cheek and apron, and there were paint stains around the edges of her fingernails. "Good evening!" she greeted warmly, though it wasn't as warm as Clarke's cheeks suddenly felt. _Get it together, Griffin,_ she scolded herself, clearing her throat as she stepped forward.

"Hi, how are you?" she asked habitually, though with the way the other woman smiled in response, she was glad she had.

"Well, the sun's setting and I'm still smiling, so I'd venture to say it's been a good day," the barista teased a bit, moving to stand in front of the stool Clarke had taken a seat at. Clarke wouldn't have admitted it, even to herself, but she felt about an inch tall under the other woman's gaze; she was beautiful, even covered in flour and paint, and it had been hard for Clarke not to notice. "What can I get for you?"

Clarke hesitated for a moment, thinking about it, before she spoke. "Large coffee, two sugars, two creams, please," she ordered, fishing a five out of her wallet as she glanced down at the pastry case to her right. "And one of those chocolate croissants, please," she added, unnecessarily pointing down to where it was in the case; duh, she probably already knew where it was already. Her lips turned up a bit at the corners as she caught the other woman's gaze as she handed over the money. "It smells so good in here," she complimented genuinely, which caused a smile to form on the woman's face.

"Thank you," she returned as she handed back Clarke's change. "We use my mother's recipes for all of the baked goods. My job is to literally be nostalgic for Sundays in my mother's kitchen. Kind of awesome." She hesitated for a moment, looking down at her order pad. "Did you want that for here or to go?" she posed, and Clarke hadn't really gotten quite that far, or so she suddenly realized.

"For here, I think," she offered with another small smile, though the brunette before her let out a soft giggle.

"You think?" she asked as she set about to making Clarke's coffee, brewing a fresh pot. "It'll be just a moment."

"No worries," Clarke assured her with a twitch of her lips as the woman hovered behind the baking case. "I used to bake with my mom when i was younger, too. Nothing quite like this, though," she admitted, slightly impressed. A bell sounded in the back as she watched the woman start to open the case, but paused.

"Hold that thought," she announced as she turned and disappeared in the back. In her absence, Clarke took a look around at the cafe, at the paintings on the walls, which she could see were a variety of different things from landscapes to seascapes, animals and even photographic like replicas. Clearly, whoever had done them had a passion for viewing life for what it was, every vivid color and hard curve of detail captured so perfectly with nothing more than a brush and paint. It was a craft Clarke thought to be far more refined than her own, which was admirable in many respects. A moment later, the door to the back swung open and the barista had appeared with a silver tray lined with a half dozen chocolate croissants. "Between you and me," she began, using a spatula to slide one off of the tray and onto a small plate, which she set down in front of Clarke, "they're a hundred times better fresh out of the oven."

"Thank you," Clarke replied, a honest smile actually springing to her lips as the smell wafted up, reaching her nose. "Mmmm."

"And here's this. Two sugars, two creams," she repeated back, to which Clarke nodded.

"This is exactly what I needed, thank you," she blurted without much forethought, a shy dusting of pink creeping onto her cheeks. "I'm uh… Clarke, by the way," she introduced herself, though her hands remained on the warm coffee cup before her.

"That's the very reason I opened this place up. Everyone needs a pick me up every now and again," she started, before a delighted smile picked up the corners of her lips. "It's my pleasure. I'm Lexa."

And so she had a name. Lexa. Lexa the barista. Was it short for anything? She looked like a Lexa, it suited her. Clarke suddenly realized that she was doing it again, weaving circles in her own mind. "So it's all yours, then?" Clarke asked, looking around again with a bit more adoration this time. What was more gripping, though, was the expression that overcame Lexa's gorgeous features as she nodded her head. It was a mixture of pride and care.

"It's my brain child. I dedicated years and a lot of savings to finally making it happen. It's a nice feeling, seeing that what you do can have positive effects on other people, even if it's just using coffee to turn a scowl into a deadpan," she joked with a soft laugh. Clarke found a sense of awe in the way Lexa spoke about her shop, about what it could do for people. That was what raw passion looked like, that was what Clarke saw when she looked at the world, or at least it had been.

"That's amazing. You should be proud," Clarke told her, to which she smiled.

"I absolutely am. It's a lot busier during the day; everyone's at home now. Small town, dead evenings," she informed her with a soft laugh.

"Have you lived here long?" Clarke inquire, though it was kind of obvious; she'd started and run a business there, the likelihood that she lived there as well was incredibly high.

"My entire life. My dad and brother were both in the service, stationed at Camp Pendleton. It's a while away, but my mother and I always stayed here when they were away." She smiled as she leaned back against the stainless counter behind her, watching Clarke with a kind smile. "I never had a reason to leave. My tiny empire is here."

"That's really admirable," Clarke noted sincerely, the smile on her lips not wavering. _This is the stuff of songs_ she thought briefly, a warmth emanating from her chest. The way Lexa spoke about things, about what she did, about her life… It was like there was nothing more important in the world to her. "It makes sense that you'd set up shop here. You… You can really tell how much you love it. And you can tell how much love you've poured into it."

"Thank you," she responded with a blushing smile. "It always means a lot when I hear that, you know? I guess sometimes I get so lost in the idea that a cup of coffee and a kind smile could change someone's day that hearing compliments in return feels a little foreign." She breathed a soft laugh, a humble one, perhaps.

"Well I'm glad I could do for you what you do for everyone else around here," Clarke told her.

Lexa had gotten a bottle of water out of the cooler under the counter and after taking a small drink, had taken to toying with it, perhaps a little bit out of nerves, which seemed so very silly. "You're new to town, aren't you?" she asked kindly, without an hostility.

"Is it that obvious?"

Lexa shook her head, the curve of her lips only seeming to grow. "It's close knit here. Most people know everyone else. I've never seen you before."

Clarke gave her a sheepish smile, popping a bite of the warm croissant into her mouth, melting a bit at just how delicious it was.

"Have you done anything exciting since you've been here?" she posed, and Clarke shook her head a bit shyly.

"Not really. I've been… stolen away in my little corner of the beach. Any recommendations?"

At this, Lexa's light about her brightened up, setting the bottle back down on the steel countertop. "There's a place up town called Moonstone Beach. They have a special on the weekends on bottles of wine. Kind of a town staple. I'd highly recommend it. The view is amazing. Oh, and of course kayaking off of the coast. It's so much fun." Clarke thought, for a moment as she listened to Lexa speak, that she could have done so for hours on end. She just had this zest for life, this bright outlook that was so visible even in the way she held herself.

"I'll keep those in mind." She had started to say something else, but the bell above the door rang and a woman shuffled in, looking a bit disheveled as she rushed up to the counter, where Lexa promptly greeted her. She ordered her coffee and Lexa set to work, but the woman's eyes had started to wander. After a moment, her gaze felt hot, like it was burning into her skin. She glanced to the side to make eye contact with the woman who immediately looked away, as if she were ashamed that she had been caught. Normally, Clarke would have said something, challenged her, but the fight in her had died down; it was nearly gone completely. She was humiliated, so much so that she couldn't even get away from her own mistakes. As the woman took the coffee and thanked Lexa, she stole another glance at Clarke before making her way out of the front doors, leaving Clarke twice as unsettled as she had been before the not-quite-encountered.

"Sorry about that," Lexa apologized, though Clarke waved her off as she finished the last bit of her pastry.

"No, it's okay." She straightened up a bit, glancing down into her nearly empty coffee cup. "I suppose i should get going. But the coffee and the pastry were both very delicious. And the first face I see in town being a friendly one has been a delight," she informed her with a kind upturn of her lips. She tilted her head slightly to the side in an inquisitorial fashion. "What time do you open in the morning?"

Lexa's smile dimmed, but it seemed as if she had caught herself, her posture straightening. "Six am Monday through Saturday, Eight on Sundays." As Clarke got to her feet, Lexa pushed herself off from the counter, beginning to clean up the empty plate and nearly empty mug.

"Thanks again for everything," Clarke voiced with a small wave as she turned to head for the door. She stopped, though, when she heard the other woman say her name, something that caused a swell of butterflies to break free somewhere in the pit of her stomach.

"Clarke?"

"Yeah?" she responded, glancing over her shoulder at the barista.

"I hope you have a good night."

"You too, Lexa."


End file.
